


To Follow, Where I May Go

by zesulin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, M/M, Purgatory, sort of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zesulin/pseuds/zesulin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are asleep."<br/>Enjolras gives him a perplexed look.<br/>"Asleep?"<br/>"Asleep;  dancing upon the border of living and dying. Well. More balancing, as it were."<br/>"Where are we, then? Where am I?"<br/>"I cannot say I know. Purgatory, perhaps. Or maybe this is all just a fever dream of yours. Either way," the painter pauses, pointing his brush directly at him. "I'm dead, and you're...somewhere between. It's really up to you what happens next."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Follow, Where I May Go

**Author's Note:**

> what am i even doing

Enjolras does not remember being draped in red cloth.  
Then again, he also does not remember this studio at all. It's all open-- there are long windows with gauzy, white curtains that filter in the golden light of afternoon-- it must be around 3, or perhaps four. It's comfortably warm, but breezy, as well. Not stiflingly hot like his own quarters, or like the back room of the Musain on occasion.  
There's a soft hum, and he fixes his eyes upon Grantaire, who's standing a few feet from him, paintbrush in hand, a large canvas before him. Somehow, though homely as always, he looks radiant. R's eyes, usually rimmed red and dark beneath, appear fresh and at ease, watery blue eyes clearer than he's ever seen them. They fix upon him for a moment, a curl of a smile playing across the painter's lips.  
"The great Adonis awakens." Grantaire hums, eyes flicking back to the canvas.  
"I'm hardly so self-absorbed, and half as tragic."  
"I suppose you are right." Grantaire pauses, dabbing his paintbrush in the red upon his palette, mixing it with a blob of black, and pressing it back to the canvas. "Undoubtedly, you are still terribly beautiful. Mind you, terribly."  
"Am I?"  
"Oh, yes." Grantaire presses his lips together, and his hand stills for a moment. "Move your head towards the left." Enjolras does as he is told. It's quite the role reversal. There's a long pause as Grantaire continues to paint. "You know, I don't usually paint like this."  
"How do you usually paint?"  
"Art is ancient, and a sport in itself. I suppose I like to do it in the classic Grecian way." Enjolras's cheeks color, Grantaire lets out a low chuckle. The blonde clears his throat.  
"I do not remember coming here."  
Grantaire hums.  
"Of course you don't."  
"Why?"  
"You are asleep."  
Enjolras gives him a perplexed look.  
"Asleep?"  
"Asleep; dancing upon the border of living and dying. Well. More balancing, as it were."  
"Where are we, then? Where am I?"  
"I cannot say I know. Purgatory, perhaps. Or maybe this is all just a fever dream of yours. Either way," the painter pauses, pointing his brush directly at him. "I'm dead, and you're...somewhere between. It's really up to you what happens next."  
A frown passes over Enjolras's face. "How can you know?"  
"Because I do. Maybe this is the buffer zone where they decide what to do with you, and what layer of hell I get to go to."  
"You will not go to hell, Grantaire."  
"How can you be so sure?"  
"You are a good man." Grantiare guffaws. Enjolras's frown deepens. "I mean it. You are good. Perhaps you do not believe you are, perhaps you cannot, but I know. You are good, you are impossible, but the best of men." The painter looks uncomfortable.  
"Do not lie to me, I know it is for my own sake, but please."  
"I speak the truth."  
The painter trembles, turning back to his work with feverish vigor. There's a period of silence, once more, before Enjolras once more breaks it.  
"You can not live?"  
"I can not."  
"But I can?"  
"Yes, I do believe so. Which will it be? Die young in a blaze of glory, or grow old and live out your life?"  
"If I live, I will see myself become a villain, after a time. My ideals will be archaic."  
"Perhaps, but that's true of everyone and everything, I think."  
The conversation lulls, and Enjolras observes the room once more, admires the simple beauty of the studio, the loveliness that is Grantaire's face right now. He's so at peace, so content, that his heart swells.  
"What is your ideal heaven, R?"  
"Wine and women."  
"Really?"  
"...Perhaps."  
"Speak freely." Grantaire pauses.  
"A place where I may be your equal."  
"You are my equal."  
"I am not."  
Before Enjolras can register what he is doing, he's stepping off the small platform he had been standing on, and he's before Grantaire, the red cloth abandoned upon the floor. The painter's face is cupped in his hands, he looks bewildered and perhaps more than a bit fearful.  
"I am your equal," he breathes, fingers trailing across Grantaire's cheek, sweeping down his jaw, caressing oh-so-gently. "I am your equal, and you...you are dear to me." He vaguely remembers their hands clasping, and it feels like an infinity ago. He remembers Grantaire, appearing so very powerful, standing before the guard, radiating goodness, seemingly suddenly sober and so, so beautiful. "You redeemed yourself. You are one of us, you always have been, and despite your skepticism," Enjolras's thumb passes over his lip, gently. "You followed what you believed in, made the ultimate sacrifice. And for that, I am proud." Grantaire trembles at their proximity, their lips practically touching, each breath shared. "I will follow you," says Enjolras, with the same fervor he puts into his speeches, though much quieter. Grantaire is blinking furiously, and Enjolras can see the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He presses a kiss to the skeptic's lips, slow, yet still chaste. When they draw away, Enjolras rests his head upon Grantaire's shoulder, holding him carefully in his arms.  
"I will follow, wherever you shall go."


End file.
